


Bed Rest

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-05
Updated: 2006-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8091124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Trip's about to learn that a sick Malcolm spells trouble.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Big thanks to Gabi for her suggestions and The Libran Iniquity for checking our grammar and spelling. Any remaining mistakes are ours because we fiddled with it afterwards.  
This fic was inspired by Pippin's "Rules" (archived here at the Warp 5 Complex - wonderful story, especially for ArcherTrip fans!). The line "Archer was certain that Malcolm Reed, for example, would not be half as tolerant and charitable as Trip was over this" gave us the idea for the story, and Pippin kindly allowed us to use parts of her plotline and mention her in the Author's Note. Thanks again!  
Now, on with the story! As always, feedback is very welcome :).  


* * *

Chapter 1

A little out of breath, Trip hurried up the porch steps, his right hand digging in his pocket for the keys while he balanced a groceries bag in his left. As he let himself in, his eyes fell on the clock on the wall opposite to the door, and he cursed inwardly. It was already past four o'clock. He had promised Malcolm he wouldn't be longer than half an hour, and that had been around three. He hadn't really liked the idea of leaving Malcolm alone, anyway, but had not wanted to bother Phlox yet again. And Malcolm had assured him that he would be alright until Trip came back.

Trip had been held up, though, traffic had been horrible, and on the way back he had gotten stuck in a tailback from an accident. By now, Malcolm would certainly be worrying. The thought intensified Trip's irritation. In his condition, even the overprotective, fussy worrying that was as much a part of him as the dark color of his hair, was poison for Malcolm. Phlox had made it very clear that any kind of strain, physical or mental, was to be avoided at all costs.

"Mal, I'm back!" Trip hollered in direction of the stairs and the upstairs bedroom, then steered towards the kitchen to drop off the groceries. He pushed down the door handle with his elbow and entered the room, his vision limited by the large brown bag which he subsequently dumped onto the kitchen counter. He was just about to turn around and head upstairs to check on his partner when he stopped in his tracks. Malcolm was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, his elbows on the table and his head resting in his hands.

"Mal?" Trip asked, and took a step closer when the other man didn't answer. "Mal, what are you doin' out of bed?"

At that, Malcolm raised his head and looked at Trip. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes bleary, dark smudges underneath them, but somehow he still managed to look annoyed. A little, anyway.

"I wanted to get myself something to eat," he said in the low, rough voice that Trip was rapidly getting used to.

Trip sighed and let his hands drop at his sides. He gave Malcolm a long-suffering look, which was quite lost on the other man, since Malcolm wasn't looking at Trip anymore but was hanging his head between his shoulders, staring at the blank table top.

Looking at this picture of exhaustion and misery, Trip felt his annoyance dissipate, being replaced by the worried feeling that he was carrying around with him all the time these days. He took the few steps over to where Malcolm was sitting and put a hand on his partner's back. He could feel him shiver, despite the feverish heat that was radiating from Malcolm's body.

"Mal," he said, bending down a little to be able to put an arm around Malcolm's shoulders. "Mal, you know that you're not supposed to get up. 'Specially not on your own."

Malcolm didn't move as he answered. "I was hungry," he said.

Trip sighed and nodded. "Yeah, well, you should've waited for me. I'd have brought you somethin'."

When Malcolm didn't answer, Trip straightened up a little. His eyes fell on Malcolm's feet, which were bare on the tiled kitchen floor, and he pressed his lips together, wishing that he had sent for groceries, after all.

_You'd think that I should be able to leave him alone for an hour_ , Trip thought, some of the irritation returning. _Every time I do, though, he's out of bed quicker than you can say "bullheaded"._

Trip knew, though, that Malcolm was not doing it to get to him, or to prove that he could. Malcolm simply hated being confined to inactivity. Ever since Phlox had announced the verdict of strict bed rest three weeks ago, Malcolm's spirits had been in the dumps, and he had been trying to hide behind a sarcastic and gruff demeanor. Which most of the time lacked in conviction, since he wasn't feeling well enough to make it convincing. But somehow, Malcolm always found the energy to haul himself out of bed, no matter how badly he was doing. And although Trip had tried everything he could think of, from coaxing to threatening to pleading, he couldn't seem to get through to him.

Trip surveyed the room that was still in the exact same state as he had left it, then looked back at his partner. "Did you have somethin' to eat?" he asked. Malcolm silently shook his head.

Trip had guessed as much. "Do you still want somethin'?" he asked.

Again, Malcolm's head moved in a negating gesture. Trip sighed again and for a moment considered telling Malcolm exactly how irresponsible and downright stupid he was behaving, then swallowed his frustration. He knew that at the moment, all his lecture would get him was a half-hearted, bleary drop-dead glare. Malcolm was quite obviously not in any condition for a conversation about his attitude towards his health.

"Well," he said instead, "then why don't you get yourself back in bed?"

Malcolm didn't move, however, but stayed as he was. Trip heard him say something, but didn't catch the exact words. Crouching down beside him, he put a hand on Malcolm's thigh and looked up at his partner's face.

"Come again?"

"I can't," Malcolm said, pronouncing the words very clearly. Underneath the testiness in his voice, Trip could hear frustration and a certain helplessness. He sighed and for a moment closed his eyes. Then he straightened up again and laid an arm around Malcolm.

"I'll help you," he said. "C'mon, Mal."

Slowly and awkwardly, Malcolm staggered to his feet, heavily leaning on Trip for support. Trip wrapped his arms around his partner and for a moment held him close, painfully aware of how much weight Malcolm had lost in the short time since he had fallen ill.

Trying not to let Malcolm see what he was thinking, he gently nudged him towards the door, and slowly, the two of them made their way into the hallway and began climbing the stairs.

When they were halfway up, Malcolm was breathing heavily, and Trip saw droplets of sweat running down his temples. For a moment, he considered simply picking him up and carrying him the rest of the way, but he knew that Malcolm would never forgive him if he did that. Instead, Trip stopped their ascent for a moment so Malcolm could catch his breath.

"Okay?" he asked after a moment, when he thought that the trembling of Malcolm's shoulders had subsided somewhat. Malcolm swallowed and nodded, and they resumed their journey.

When they finally reached the bedroom, Trip almost stumbled upon entering. The reason was the third inhabitant of their house, a huge, black, shaggy dog named Johnson, who followed the habit of sleeping on the rug right behind the bedroom door. As Trip had entered, Johnson hadn't moved fast enough and Trip, not seeing where he was going, had almost fallen over him.

Wrapping his arms tighter around Malcolm, Trip fought for balance and after a moment regained his footing.

"Get outta the way, Johnny," he said and the dog, who had already moved aside, minced backwards a little further and looked at him with his red-rimmed, slightly dopey eyes. Trip didn't pay him any further attention and steered Malcolm towards the bed that was standing in the middle of the room.

As soon as Malcolm had lain down - or rather, dropped onto the mattress - he turned onto his side and closed his eyes, his breathing harsh and heavy. Trip spread the blankets over him and made sure that Malcolm's feet were tucked in under the covers. As his fingers brushed over the icy toes, he shook his head.

"Why didn't you at least put on your slippers?" he asked, looking up. At first, Malcolm didn't answer, and Trip thought that he was already asleep, but then he heard him mumble something, and strained his ears to catch the words.

"You couldn't find them?" he asked, and looked down, scanning the floor for Malcolm's slippers. Sure enough, they were in their usual place right next to the bed. As Trip turned his head, his eyes fell on something brown and tattered that was lying in the corner next to the door. He squinted, and sighed as his suspicion was confirmed.

"Johnson," he said sternly, turning his eyes onto the dog that was still standing next to the door, and pointed to the shredded remains of the slipper. "That's the third pair."

Johnson followed his finger with a sleepy gaze, then looked back at him, and Trip was pretty sure that he was giving him the canine version of an indifferent shrug.

He sighed, and turned back to Malcolm, sitting down next to him on the bed. Malcolm's breathing had quieted down, and Trip was pretty sure that he had already fallen asleep. It never took him long when he had exerted himself.

Trip reached out and ran a hand through Malcolm's sweaty hair, studying his partner's exhausted face.

_Why d'you have to keep doing that_ , he thought, knowing that the answer was simply that Malcolm couldn't help himself. At the best of times, Malcolm considered sleeping a necessary evil, and spent as little time as possible doing it. And staying in bed day and night, even if he was sick, was something that was nearly impossible for him. Thinking that a person like him should have fallen ill with a disease for which the only cure was, as Phlox had put it, "moving as little as possible", seemed a rather cruel twist of fate to Trip.

Four weeks ago, when Malcolm had returned from a security conference on Jupiter Station, Trip had known that something was wrong. Malcolm, of course, had paid his runny nose and aching joints not the slightest bit of attention, and Trip had figured that it was probably a simple case of the flu which would pass on its own eventually. However, Malcolm had not gotten better, as Trip had expected; his condition had worsened, and when after week Trip had suggested that they call Phlox for a check-up, Malcolm had offered only feeble resistance.

They had taken the short trip to San Francisco where Phlox worked at Starfleet Medical, and the Denobulan doctor had examined Malcolm. His diagnosis had surprised and worried Trip. Malcolm had obviously caught an alien bug on his trip to Jupiter Station, something called the Andorian Picarno Virus, which was wreaking havoc with his immune system. On Andoria, as Phlox had told them, an APV infection was quite common and easily dealt with, but due to the different physiologies of Andorians and humans, the Andorian cure would not work for Malcolm. As it seemed, however, the virus fed on certain hormones which were secreted by the adrenal glands and according to Phlox, the virus could be "starved out" if Malcolm managed to keep the value of hormone release on the lowest of possible levels.

At that point in Phlox' explanations, Malcolm had grown very suspicious, and had asked the doctor how he was supposed to control the output of some gland of whose existence he had not even been aware up until then. Phlox' answer had not made him any happier, since the doctor had told him that aside from regular medication, strict bed rest was in order.

That had been three weeks ago. Ever since, Trip was trying to convince Malcolm to follow the doctor's orders and stay in bed, and Malcolm was trying... well, he was trying to get by without either being driven out of his mind by boredom or losing it because of frustration.

Trip felt sympathy for his partner, since he knew how much Malcolm hated being sick, but he couldn't help getting a little mad at him from time to time. Phlox had not held back about the possible consequences of an APV infection in humans - if allowed to flourish, the virus would eventually do irreparable damage to the immune system, and in the worst of cases the disease would end in Malcolm dying from a simple flu. Terrestrian flu.

Trip sighed, and pulled back the hand that had been resting on Malcolm's arm. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, sitting here and brooding. It was of no use to anyone, and it did nothing for Trip's state of mind, either.

He got up and stepped out into the hallway, holding the door open and flicking his tongue. "C'mon, Johnny," he whispered, and the huge black dog that had lain back down on the rug awkwardly scrambled to his paws and trotted towards him, tail wagging. Trip smiled. Johnson wasn't the brightest of dogs, but he did have an internal clock that could take on that of a Vulcan any time. He always seemed to know exactly when dinner time was coming around.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"... well, Forrest says they're going to contact you about the project as soon as you're back from nursing leave. Oh, and he said to tell Malcolm to get well soon."

Trip sighed. "He might even listen if the order's straight from Starfleet Command."

On the vidscreen, Archer leaned forward and smiled sympathetically. "That bad?"

_Yes_ , Trip wanted to say, but then decided that it wouldn't be fair. So Malcolm was being a pain in the ass from time to time, but it wasn't that bad; not really. His anger at finding Malcolm in the kitchen, shivering and bare feet turning to ice, had dissipated overnight, turning into sympathy for his partner, who was forced to give up his independence in order to lie in bed 24/7 and have someone else wait on him hand and foot. It was no wonder that Malcolm wasn't in the best of spirits.

"Naw," he said. "He's okay. Doesn't like havin' to stay in bed, but we're dealin' with that."

Archer's expression was less than convinced. "Do you need someone to come over and help you, Trip?"

Trip quickly shook his head. He had to admit that it would make for a nice change, having someone here, but he wasn't going to spoil Jon's weekend... especially after Archer had told him that he and Captain Hernandez were planning to go mountain climbing with Travis and his wife.

"That's okay," he said. "We're good. Thanks though."

Archer nodded. "Anytime, Trip. If there's anything I can do..."

"I'll let you know." Trip smiled. "Thanks Jon."

A yelp drowned out the last word. Archer glanced down, and a moment later Porthos appeared, climbing onto Archer's lap.

"There you are, boy."

"Hey Port."

On hearing Trip's voice, the beagle turned to the screen and barked, his little tail wagging back and forth like a windshield wiper at high speed. Archer began to scratch the dog's ears, looking back at the screen.

"So, how's Malcolm today?" he asked. "Still running a fever?"

"Gettin' better. His temperature was under 38 this mornin'. He even had two pancakes for breakfast, with peanutbutter, of course."

Archer grinned, then became serious again. "Tell him to get some rest. It's been what, three weeks now?"

Trip nodded. "Yeah. It's this damn bug that's takin' forever to get out of his system. Phlox said that any physical exertion will trigger a setback, even if he thinks he's feelin' better. Well, but you know how Malcolm is, he's not gonna ask me to help him out of bed as long as he can still crawl."

Archer sighed and nodded. "He can be difficult, huh?"

"Well, sometimes." Trip tried to sound confident as he continued. "But he's startin' to feel better. Two weeks, maybe three, and Phlox said he should be able to get up again. That'll take his mind off things."

"I'm sure it will," Archer said. Then he smiled. "Maybe I'll drop by your place sometime next week, give you an evening off."

Secretly, Trip wasn't so sure if Malcolm would appreciate his former Captain as a babysitter, but he didn't say so. At least, Malcolm would stay in bed when he was ordered to by a superior officer who didn't happen to be his partner of six years.

"That'd be great."

Porthos barked, his tail still going like a crazy pendulum, and Archer gave Trip an apologetic smile. "Lunch time."

"Right." Trip grinned. "Well, I'd better get back and see what the gang is up to."

_One of them probably using his sheets to climb out the window, the other one chewing a hole into the dogfood bag_ , he added in his mind but didn't say. He didn't want Jon to think that he couldn't even keep tabs on a jailbreaking Englishman and a gluttonous pooch.

Archer raised an eyebrow as if he had been reading his thoughts. "Don't let them get to you. "

"Naw." Trip chuckled, although it turned out a little weak. "Say hello to Erica, Travis and Alma for me."

"I will. Maybe next time you and Malcolm could come along."

"Maybe," Trip replied diplomatically, thinking that Malcolm would rather be dragged to the beach than go rock-climbing with two Starfleet captains. And if he was being honest, he himself rather preferred the beach, too. More sun, and less danger of finding yourself dangling over a bottomless abyss or breaking all the bones in your body if you slipped. "Have fun, Jon. I'll talk to you soon."

"See you soon," Archer replied over another bark from Porthos and reached out to cut the connection. "Bye, Trip."

"Bye."

The screen went dark, and Trip remained where he was for a few seconds. He had put on a brave face for Jon, not wanting it to look as if he couldn't cope. Truth was, however, that the situation was getting to him more than he liked to admit. When Malcolm was sick, Malcolm was unhappy, and there was little anyone could do about it. Yesterday had only been another incident in a long row of small arguments and disagreements because Malcolm refused to submit to Phlox' orders and stay in bed as he was told. Phlox, of course, wasn't here, and so it was Trip receiving the brunt of Malcolm's frustration, day after day after day. And as much as he loved his partner, sometimes Trip wished that he could ask someone else to take over, even if it was only for a few hours.

Something cold and moist touched his hand. He looked down and found that Johnson was sitting on his heels next to the chair, gazing up at him with accusing eyes.

Trip sighed and got up. "It's only half past twelve, Johnny, it's not as if I'm starvin' you."

Johnson seemed to disagree, and bounded into the kitchen with uncharacteristical speed. Trip followed him at a slower pace, grinning at the dog's single-mindedness when it came to his mealtimes. In a way, Johnson was as set on getting food as Malcolm was on getting out of bed.

"You two are gonna be the death of me," he told Johnson as he poured kibble into the dog's bowl. Johnson reacted by thumping his tail against Trip's leg, then lowered his head and began to noisily consume his lunch. Trip watched him fondly, remembering the day Jon had introduced the dog as their new family member-to-be. "I found him behind a trash can in the city," Archer had said, ignoring Malcolm's look of disbelief at seeing a large, shaggy dog making himself at home on their living room couch. "I can't have two dogs in my apartment, but I thought you might like him. He's a good boy." He had smiled at the dog who in the meantime had started to chew on the armrest of the couch. "Right?"

"He looks like Father Johnson," Malcolm had said, and at their inquiring looks, had added, "The parish priest back in my hometown."

The name had stayed, as had the dog, and in the meantime even Malcolm admitted that Johnson was a nice, if somewhat hairy addition to their life, even though he did eat the occasional sock or slipper.

"Could be worse," he had said dryly after Archer had left. "He could have brought us a horse."

Trip smiled in remembrance and watched Johnson destroy the last few bits of his lunch. When the dog had finished, he looked up at Trip and barked once.

"You wanna go see how Malcolm's doin'?" Trip asked. Johnson wagged his tail at the mention of Malcolm's name, and Trip nodded. "Okay, let's go check on him."

Trip picked up a thermos full of tea and followed Johnson up the stairs. The bedroom door stood ajar, and the dog pushed it open with his nose, wagging his tail as he trotted over to the bed. Trip followed him inside, closing the door before he turned to look at Malcolm.

As usual, Malcolm was lying on his side with the covers pulled up to his waist. When he became aware of Trip, he tried to smile a little, but it turned out more like a grimace. Instantly worried, Trip set the thermos aside and walked over to the bed.

"Malcolm?" he asked. "You're okay?"

Malcolm opened his mouth to answer, but immediately closed it again, clamping a hand over his lips. Trip reacted just in time, pulling out the basin from under the bedside table and helping Malcolm sit up. Johnson whined worriedly as Malcolm began to retch and heave, licking the hand that was clutching the edge of the bed.

Trip held Malcolm and stroked his back until the vomiting had passed. He had to struggle not to let his disappointment show on his face; Malcolm had seemed so well this morning, and had even smiled when Trip had come in with the pancakes.

Finally, Malcolm raised his head again and Trip set the basin aside.

"Here," he took a glass of water from the bedside table and handed it to Malcolm, who took a few careful sips. His face was still pale, and he was avoiding Trip's eyes as he handed the glass back.

"Thanks."

Trip knew that Malcolm felt embarrassed and humiliated after episodes like this, and so he only nodded. He would have liked to say a few words of comfort or even ask if Malcolm was feeling better, but knew that neither would be appreciated; not now.

He carried the basin to the adjoining bathroom and cleaned it, then returned to the main room with a spray to neutralize the smell. Malcolm had lain back down again and closed his eyes, but Trip knew that he wasn't sleeping.

After he had returned the basin where it belonged, Trip sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Jon says hello," he said, and Malcolm opened his eyes. He looked tired, but seemed grateful that Trip had not commented on his sudden attack of nausea.

"Is he still working on the transporter project?" he wanted to know.

Trip nodded. "Yeah. He and Erica are takin' the week off to go mountain climbin', but they'll be back on Friday. He said Forrest's gonna call me sometime to give me an update."

He didn't mention the nursing leave; Malcolm was feeling guilty enough as it was about keeping Trip at home. No need to rub it in.

Malcolm, however, seemed to have guessed what Jon had really said. The sad expression on his face hurt Trip, and he slid a little closer to his unhappy partner, resting a hand on Malcolm's shoulder, and began to stroke him softly.

As his hand caressed Malcolm's back, Malcolm's eyes began to close and the tension slowly disappeared from his face.

"Poor darlin'," Trip said quietly. He continued his gentle massage until he was sure that Malcolm had dozed off. Then, carefully, he got up from the edge of the bed and picked up a padd, settling down on the cot he had been using ever since Malcolm had fallen ill.

After a while, however, the padd slipped from his hands and he had nodded off as well, his soft snoring joining the chorus of Johnson and Malcolm, who were both sound asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Thanks, Phlox." Trip produced a smile and nodded at the image of Dr. Phlox on the vid screen. The Denobulan smiled as well, but after more than six years Trip knew Phlox well enough to see the concern and compassion in his expression. The fact that Dr. "Let's be optimistic" Phlox saw reason to be seriously worried did nothing to ease Trip's mind.

"Anytime, Mr. Tucker," the doctor said. "We'll talk again on Thursday."

Trip nodded, and after they had exchanged a few more words of good-bye, he reached out to cut the connection. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Every two or three days, Phlox called to get an update on Malcolm's condition and to answer any questions Trip might have. Remembering the kitchen incident of two days ago, Trip had asked Phlox how much of an effect Malcolm's little strolls actually had on his recovery. Phlox had evaded his question somewhat by explaining about the many factors that played a part in the complicated system of the circadian rhythm, but he had been very emphatic on how important it was that Malcolm did not get up if it wasn't absolutely necessary. Trip had gotten the impression that Phlox was getting a little frustrated himself.

_If **he's** getting frustrated, then what about **me**?_ Trip thought with a touch of self-pity, then shook his head, trying to get rid of his gloomy thoughts. Malcolm had been exceptionally compliant the last two days, and had not been out of bed once without permission. The effect was showing already, too. Today, Malcolm was having a pretty good day; good enough, actually, for him to be whining about wanting to get some work done.

_That's Malcolm for you_ , Trip thought. _Barely able to walk ten feet without collapsing, but still he wants to work._

Trip had only smiled when Malcolm had demanded the padds with the EM field calculations, and had chosen to stall for time by telling his partner that he would ask Phlox whether it was okay for Malcolm to work a little. Of course, he had done no such thing, but maybe Malcolm had forgotten about it by now. And if he hadn't, Trip would still be able to lay all the blame on the doctor.

Trip threw a glance at the clock on the view screen and decided that it was time to ask Malcolm what he wanted for lunch. And maybe he would take Johnny for a short walk afterwards.

He got up and quickly climbed the stairs. As he approached the bedroom door, he frowned as he saw that it was closed shut. He usually left the door ajar to be able to hear Malcolm if he was calling him. Which had never happened up until now, but one could always hope.

When he opened the door, though, he knew immediately why it had been closed. He pressed his lips together and turned his eyes from the empty bed to Malcolm, who was sitting at the desk, his back to the door.

_At least he's put on a pair of slippers this time_ , Trip thought, then spoke up, anger evident in his voice. "What the hell are you doin' out of bed again, Malcolm?"

Malcolm didn't turn around, but with a certain satisfaction, Trip saw him wince a little at his tone. His reply, however, held no guilt whatsoever.

"What does it look like to you?"

Trip walked the few steps over to the desk and picked up the padd that was lying in front of his partner. He threw a glance at the display.

"I thought I told you to wait until I had talked to Phlox."

Malcolm made a small, scornful noise. "As if you ever intended to."

Trip was thrown a little off track at having been seen through so easily. He recovered quickly, however, and put the padd aside on a shelf, out of Malcolm's reach. "Well, get back in bed now," he said, the guilt he felt at snapping at Malcolm drowned out by his growing anger at Malcolm's irresponsibility. _Compliant my ass_ , he thought.

Malcolm didn't react immediately, but after a moment obviously decided that Trip was holding all the strategic advantages, and slowly got up from the chair. He stood, and swayed a little. Trip reached out to put a steadying hand on his arm, but Malcolm moved away. He didn't quite bat his hand away, but Trip was sure he would have if he had been sure that he could keep his balance while doing it. Biting his lip to keep an angry remark inside, he stood back and made no move to help Malcolm as the other man slowly shuffled across the room and climbed into bed. It hurt him to see Malcolm like this, but for a change, the feeling did not lessen his anger, but fuelled it. When Malcolm had crawled under the covers, Trip picked up the padd again, waving it in the air and catching Malcolm's eyes before he could turn away.

"So, now tell me, what's so damn important about this?" he asked, almost surprised at the intensity of his feelings. He had no intention of holding back this time, though.

Malcolm only stared back at him, his tired eyes not quite able to produce the icy glint that usually went with this expression. Trip took a step closer. "It seems like we both know that Phlox would never allow you to even touch this," he continued. "I certainly wasn't goin' to. Not because I'm an evil person, or because I want to tease and torment you, but because I want you to get _better_." Trip noticed that a desperate tone had crept into his voice, but he didn't care. He wanted, he _needed_ Malcolm to finally understand.

Malcolm seemed to have realized that he had taken it one step too far this time. His expression had lost the stubbornness of before, and he had turned his eyes away, staring at the sheets. Trip licked his lips, continuing in a slightly calmer tone. "I want you to get better, Mal, and so does Phlox and everybody else. I know that you hate the way things are right now, but the only way to change things is to play along for a while." He paused, giving Malcolm a chance to say something. His partner kept silent, though.

"You can't keep doin' this, Mal," he said. "You need to listen to me. Or, if you don't wanna listen to me, listen to Phlox. He explained to you how the virus works. You might be feelin' better at times, but actually, you're not. And if you keep gettin' up as soon as you feel better, you're gonna have one setback after another."

There was a moment of silence, then Malcolm spoke up, his tone defiant. "It's not as if I tried to go for a walk or anything," he said, not looking at Trip. "I was only sitting at the bloody desk."

Trip let out an explosive sigh. "You were workin'," he said. "You're not supposed to be workin'. You're supposed to be in bed. You can read, you can watch movies, and you can call me if you really need to get up. But you cannot get up on your own, and you cannot be broodin' over some goddamn calculation of some friggin' EM field. If you keep up doin' what you're doin' now, you'll never be able to work on anythin' again."

Silence followed his words, and Trip felt a twinge of guilt at the hurt that flickered across Malcolm's features before the expressionless mask slid back into place. But the helpless anger he was feeling was stronger. It wasn't like he was exaggerating. The way Malcolm was going, he was only worsening his condition, heading for permanent incapacity.

_Or worse_ , Trip thought and quickly pushed the thought aside. He did not need to think of that now.

"Well," he said to break the awkward silence, "I'll go and fix you some lunch. Soup okay?"

Malcolm didn't answer, only gave the tiniest of shrugs and lay back down, his back turned towards Trip, pulling the covers up to his neck. Trip took in a breath, about to say something - he wasn't quite clear on what it would be, an apology, an appeal to Malcolm's common sense - but then only let it out again in a sigh and dropped the padd onto the desk. He'd talk to Malcolm later on. Right now he was still too worked up.

He crossed the room and stepped into the hallway, leaving the door slightly open. Through the gap, he caught a glimpse of Malcolm's dark head resting on the pillows. Part of him did feel a little guilty about his outburst; after all, Malcolm was sick, and giving him a load of crap about responsibility and reason wouldn't lead to any results. But it was the smaller part. Actually, Trip was hopeful that maybe some of his speech had gotten through to Malcolm, after all.

_If it hasn't, I'm seriously screwed_ , he thought. _I've no idea what else to try_.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The afternoon and evening had passed without incident, and Trip was beginning to hope that they had reached an agreement when he helped Malcolm get ready for bed. His partner wasn't exactly in a talkative mood, but he allowed Trip to help him to the bathroom and onto the chair in front of the sink, and, when he was done, even called for him instead of trying to get up on his own.

After helping Malcolm back into bed, Trip took his temperature and noted down the result as Phlox had asked him to do. Malcolm let it happen even though he usually hated this part of their evening routine, and even smiled a little when Trip made sure he was comfortably covered for the night.

"Thanks, Trip."

Trip nodded and reached out to stroke Malcolm's hot forehead. "Sleep well, Mal. Call me if you need anythin', okay?"

He hadn't meant his statement as a reminder of their earlier argument, but Malcolm apparently took it as one. His smile faded, but he said nothing, and only nodded once.

Trip sighed inwardly. He knew Malcolm wasn't being like that on purpose; the sickness was rubbing his nerves raw and bringing out his irritable side. It was trying, however, having to weigh every word so Malcolm wouldn't take it as another reason to clam up and sulk.

"Okay then," Trip said. He would have liked to exchange a goodnight kiss as usual, but the mood seemed to have taken a downturn, Malcolm's cool demeanor rejecting any friendly approach. Letting out a small sigh, he got up. "Sleep well, Mal."

"Night."

Malcolm had rolled over so that his back was turned to the door, his mumbled reply barely intelligible. Trip regarded him for another moment, wondering if he should try and say something. Then he decided against it. Malcolm's fever had gone up, and he was probably acting out of sheer exhaustion. If this continued in the morning, there would be enough time to talk about it; now, letting Malcolm sleep was probably the best thing he could do.

Quietly, Trip left the room and closed the door. Johnson, who had been sprawling on the carpet in the hallway, jumped up and wagged his tail.

Trip smiled. "Hey boy, wanna go for a walk?"

"Walk" came right after "food" in Johnson's vocabulary, and he barked excitedly.

"Shhh." Trip began to walk down the stairs, the dog following on his heels. "Malcolm's sleepin'."

Johnson bounded down the staircase and was impatiently waiting at the door while Trip went to get his jacket.

"Okay, okay, I'm comin'."

Johnson barked again, and Trip quickly opened the door to let him out.

"Let's go, boy. Time you got some fresh air."

-###-

By the time they came back, Trip had completely forgiven Malcolm for his irritability, thinking that must have been his quickly rising temperature taking its toll. The fever drained Malcolm of all his energy, and it was only natural that he would be a little out of sorts.

Johnson flopped down on the carpet in the living room, his tongue lolling out and his eyes following Trip around the room, as if he knew exactly what his human companion was thinking.

"Think Malcolm's asleep by now?" Trip asked the dog, who flicked his ears in return. "Probably, huh? Well, I guess I'd better check on him."

Johnson closed his eyes as if to indicate his agreement, and Trip began to climb the stairs. He'd make sure that Malcolm was okay, then go to his study to squeeze in an hour or two of work before he went back to the bedroom to turn in himself.

Careful not to make any noise, Trip opened the door to the bedroom and slipped inside. The lights were off, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Then he saw that the covers were half in, half out of the bed, the extra blanket lying on the floor... and there was no Malcolm.

Trip felt his anger of before return, all his forgiving feelings towards Malcolm disappearing down the drain. So the little sonofabitch had sneaked out again, regardless of the consequences for his health, as if their argument of earlier had never happened at all.

Lips pressed together, Trip walked towards the bathroom door that stood slightly ajar. There was a small streak of light shining through the crack, and Trip was quite certain of what he would find inside.

Sure enough, as he opened the door, there was Malcolm sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. He was shivering, and had his arms wrapped around himself as if to protect himself from the cold. When Trip came closer, he raised his head, looking at Trip out of bleary eyes.

"Trip, I..."

Trip shook his head and reached out to help Malcolm to his feet, wrapping an arm around the other man's waist and pulling Malcolm's arm over his shoulders. As they slowly made their way towards the bed, Malcolm tried again.

"Trip, I didn't-"

Trip cut him off. "I don't wanna hear it, Malcolm. We talked about this and I told you what'll happen if you keep pushin' it. You decided not to listen. What else is there?"

Malcolm closed his mouth with an audible snap, and Trip got a little bit of satisfaction from the guilt now clouding the other man's features. They reached the bed, and Malcolm wordlessly allowed himself to be helped inside, saying nothing as Trip drew up the covers. Trip noted with concern how cold Malcolm's hands were, but he didn't say anything about it and turned away without another word. He knew that there was really only one thing left for him to do, and despised the fact that he would even have to think about it. But there was no other way. Malcolm would kill himself if he continued pushing.

He left the room without looking at Malcolm and closed the door. For a moment, he leaned against the wall next to the door, closing his eyes. Malcolm would never forgive him, and Trip wasn't sure if he would be able to forgive himself for what he was about to do. But if it was the only way to ensure Malcolm's recovery, then he would do it, and he would have to do it now. No sense in postponing the inevitable.

Slowly, Trip walked down the stairs. Johnson, who had retired to his doggy bed next to the couch, raised his head, but didn't jump up as he usually did. Not paying the dog any attention, Trip walked over to the cupboard next to the door and took out the bag Phlox had given him on one of his first housecalls. Inside there were boxes with pain medication, several hyposprays, and, on the bottom of the bag, the thing which Trip had never intended to use.

When he had first seen it, he had even been a little angry, telling Phlox that there was no need for him to keep this. Phlox had merely taken it from his hand and put it back into the bag.

"There might come a time when there is no other way," he had said simply.

It turned out that he had been right. Trip took the object in question out of the bag and regarded it for a moment. It was a padded cuff intended to be fastened around a patient's ankle, with a plastic strap to attach it to the bed. The whole ugly thing came with a small electronic key, so that neither the cuff nor the strap could be removed when locked. Trip resisted the urge to drop it back into the bag and never look at it again. Instead he placed the bag back in the cupboard and turned around, the strap of the cuff clenched firmly in his hand. He hated doing this, hated it like he had hated few things before, and if he was being completely honest with himself, there was also the fear that he was about to make a huge mistake. But it was as Phlox had said; right now, he saw no other way.

Holding on to that thought, he walked up the stairs. In the corridor in front of the bedroom, he paused briefly, then opened the door and went inside. As he switched on the lights, Malcolm turned around to face him. His expression was one of confusion, with a touch of guilt.

"Trip?"

Trip bit down hard on his lip. He could still change his mind, could still hide the cuff and take it back downstairs when Malcolm was sleeping.

Instead he approached the bed. "Malcolm, I don't know what to do anymore," he said, knowing that he shouldn't be justifying what he was about to do, but unable to help himself. "I'm sorry that it has come to this, but I don't see another way."

Malcolm frowned and for the first time, seemed to notice the cuff in Trip's hand. Under different circumstances, the dawning realization and shock on his face might have been funny, but as it was, Trip couldn't see anything amusing about the situation.

"This is ridiculous!" Malcolm said, his voice thick with outrage. "You can't do that, Trip!"

Suddenly, Trip was angry; at himself, at Phlox, at the goddamn virus and at Malcolm who was forcing him to do this. 

"Watch me!"

He stepped to the foot of the bed and flung the covers aside with one hand, grabbing Malcolm's left foot with the other. Malcolm gasped and for a moment Trip believed he would start to kick and struggle. He didn't, however, and only lay there, his breath trembling with anger as Trip fitted the padded cuff around his ankle. Trip avoided Malcolm's eyes as he tightened the restraint so that Malcolm would not be able to slip it off, then attached the plastic strap to the metal bed frame. He locked both cuff and strap, then tugged the blanket back over Malcolm's feet. He couldn't remember ever feeling so miserable in his life.

Malcolm lay there and stared at him with murder in his eyes. Trip clenched his fingers on the electronic key, his determination wavering when he realized that it wasn't only fury in Malcolm's expression; there was also a hurt and helplessness that was almost too much for Trip.

"Why couldn't you listen to me?" he asked, clearing his throat when his voice threatened to fail. "You were killin' yourself, don't you understand that? Do you think I want to do this?"

Malcolm said nothing in reply. He stared at Trip for another moment, then abruptly turned over on his side. His shoulders were hunched and tense, but he gave no sound or other indication that he was still aware of Trip's presence in the room.

For a few seconds, Trip regarded the motionless form on the bed. He could have cried, but bit down hard on his lip before any sound could come out. Then, his fingers still clenched tightly around the key, he turned, not looking back as he left the room.

-###-

It was more than two hours later when Trip finally turned in himself. He lay back on the pillows, staring into the darkness of the bedroom. Usually, he valued this moment of the day as an opportunity to let the day's events settle while he was listening to the soft sounds of Malcolm breathing and the not-so-soft grunts that Johnson produced in his sleep.

Today, however, he couldn't settle. It felt to Trip as though his partner was glaring at him, sending cold waves of accusation and fury through the room. Every time he tried to calm himself enough to go to sleep, the feeling intensified, and he shivered despite the warm blankets spread over him.

Today had not been the first argument he had ever had with Malcolm, and neither had it been their first discussion about something more important than their different points of view on how many times per month the living room carpet needed vacuuming. Usually they could settle their disagreements by talking rationally and finding a compromise both of them were more or less satisfied with. There were a few matters, though, about which there was no talking to Malcolm. His working hours, for example, or his constant worrying about Trip that from time to time almost bordered on ridiculousness. When it came to these issues, Trip had quickly learned that it was no use arguing. He simply didn't have the tenacity to endure Malcolm's endless periods of silent sulking that followed any protests on Trip's part and that would end in a loud argument in which Trip would eventually have to admit to his sins and vow repentance. Most of the times, the matters that Trip would have liked to complain about seemed too unimportant for Trip to go through all of this.

This time, however, he couldn't just save himself the trouble and give in for the sake of peace and quiet. This was Malcolm's health at stake, and Trip knew that he had to convince Malcolm to see reason this time. If he didn't, he would be as guilty of the consequences as Malcolm himself.

He sighed and rolled onto his side, turning his back to the room and towards the icy onslaught from the other bed. He was tired, too tired to dwell on these unpleasant matters any further, but at the same time the thoughts wouldn't go away and kept chasing their tails in his mind.

Trip closed his eyes, and tried to focus on something more pleasant that would help him fall asleep. After a while, the image of a memory formed in his mind; him and Malcolm sitting on the couch in the Christmassy decorated living room of the Tucker residence in Florida. In the end of last year, Trip had finally followed through on his threat and had taken Malcolm to experience a true Tucker Christmas. At first, Malcolm had been somewhat intimidated - "There's just so _many_ of you," he had said on the first evening of their stay when Trip had asked him if he was having a good time - but after a short settling-in period, he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. As had Trip.

The memory finally brought the calm Trip had been waiting for, and slowly, he drifted off to sleep, his face buried in the pillows and the covers pulled up all the way to his ears to protect him from the cold.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Trip woke up early the next morning, stirred to awareness by the dull ache in his back. It was nothing new; the cot wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it was not intended to be used over a longer period of time, and he had been sleeping on it for a little over three weeks now. The last few days, he had woken up every morning feeling as if someone had tied a knot in his spine at some point during the night.

Still not quite awake, he massaged the place between his shoulderblades where the pain was located. His head was aching as well, and Trip sleepily recalled that it had taken him a long time to fall asleep the evening before. Then he remembered the reason why, and sighed. Maybe he should simply stay in bed today, and pretend that yesterday had never happened. The idea seemed more appealing the longer he thought about it, and he closed his eyes again, intending to catch a few more minutes of rest.

A twinge between his shoulders brought him back. Trip sighed in resignation and opened his eyes, rolling over onto his back. The gray February dawn was beginning to illuminate the room, a soft, steady rapping against the window indicating that it was raining outside. Trip looked over at the bed and saw that Malcolm had turned over in the night. The pale face resting on the pillow was relaxed and peaceful, betraying none of the cold anger Trip had felt coming off the other man the night before.

Trip regarded his sleeping partner for a moment and felt a sudden, almost painful surge of affection. Malcolm could be a pain in the ass, but that didn't change anything about the fact that Trip had never loved anyone more in his life. He couldn't stand the thought of anyone or anything hurting this man, and the awareness that he had been forced to do so himself lay in his chest like a heavy weight. And he knew that he had hurt Malcolm deeply. The British man valued few things as he valued his privacy and independence, and by forcibly confining him, Trip had trampled on his feelings in a way Malcolm wouldn't easily forgive or forget. In a rational sense, Trip knew that he had done the right thing; Malcolm needed to stay in bed or he would never return to full health. However, no rational explanation in the world could change the fact that it had hurt him badly to do this.

Quietly, so as not to wake the sleeping man, Trip sat up and flexed his shoulders to work the kink out of his back. Then he got up and walked on bare feet over to the bed. Malcolm had pulled the blanket up to his chin, exposing the foot that was tethered to the bedframe. Wincing at the sight, Trip picked up the extra blanket that had fallen to the floor and spread it over Malcolm. Briefly, he considered taking off the restraint now while Malcolm was sleeping and be done with it, but as much as he would have liked to do so, he knew that this was the one thing he couldn't do, now that he had decided to use this last measure to keep Malcolm in bed. If he gave in now, Malcolm would never listen to him again and would keep pushing it until he had ruined his health for good. Sighing, Trip turned away and after a brief detour to gather up his clothes went to the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later he returned showered and shaved to the main room. He had half hoped that Malcolm would still be asleep, but he wasn't, lying on his side and staring out at the raindrops that were trickling down the window. He didn't move or raise his head when the bathroom door opened, his eyes fixed on the rain outside. Trip's heart sank. It was more than obvious that none of Malcolm's anger had dissipated over night; if anything, his resentment had grown at waking up and finding that the restraint was still there.

"Mornin', Mal," he said in an as he hoped neutral tone of voice. As he had expected, there was no reaction.

Trip sighed. It would have been much easier to leave Malcolm to stew in his own juice for a while, but he knew he couldn't do so. No matter how miserable he was feeling, Malcolm would insist on taking a shower every morning, and even allow Trip to help him into the shower and onto the seat they had installed. It would be more than rubbing it in to leave him in bed unwashed and in his old pajamas.

Steeling himself for the icy rejection he was going to encounter, Trip walked over to the bed and crouched down next to it so Malcolm had no choice but to look at him.

"How 'bout we get you into the shower?"

Malcolm gave him a look of cold disdain and turned his eyes away, now staring at a point behind Trip's right shoulder. Trip struggled not to let his hurt show on his face.

_Why do you have to make it so hard, Malcolm?_

"Come on," he said and tried to sound as if he had never expected an answer. "Let's get you into the bathroom, and then we can take care of breakfast, what do you say?"

Malcolm, of course, said nothing, and Trip sighed again, taking the key out of his pocket and unlocking the cuff. Inwardly, he let out a breath of relief when he saw that Malcolm's skin was neither red nor irritated where the cuff had touched it; he couldn't have stood the thought of causing Malcolm discomfort on top of everything else.

A small, desperately optimistic part of his mind had hoped that Malcolm would break his silence once he was free of the restraint, but Malcolm's face remained as closed-off as it had been before. Slowly and awkwardly, he began to sit up and only acknowledged Trip's presence by pulling away when Trip tried to support him.

Trip decided that for the sake of both their sanities it might be better if he didn't insist on helping Malcolm. He stood back and watched as Malcolm shuffled over to the bathroom, ignoring the fresh pajamas Trip had laid out for him. As soon as he was inside, Malcolm closed the door behind himself with an audible click. Usually, he would leave it open a crack so that Trip could come to his aid if anything happened, but today he seemed to prefer the idea of perishing on the bathroom floor rather than asking Trip for help.

Trip sat down heavily on his cot and listened for the noises inside the bathroom, hoping that Malcolm wouldn't hurt himself and at the same time racking his brain what he should do once Malcolm came out again. Tying Malcolm back to the bed would be the ultimate insult, and Trip wasn't sure he would come out alive if he tried. At the same time he couldn't simply dispose of the restraint and act as if nothing had happened. Malcolm needed to understand that he was serious and that the silent treatment changed nothing about the fact that Trip was going to have his way this time. Not for the first time, Trip wished he could ask someone for help. He hated treating Malcolm like an irresponsible child, but saw no other way as long as Malcolm insisted on acting like one.

_Maybe all he needs is another chance_ , he thought as he stared at the closed bathroom door. _Maybe all I've gotta do is try and talk to him._

The idea seemed a lot better to him than wordlessly reapplying the restraint. If he tried to talk to him, really tried, Malcolm might come around and see reason. He might not forgive Trip for the incident with the cuff, at least not so soon, but maybe he would agree to acknowledge that there was no other way but to follow Phlox' orders.

With renewed confidence, Trip got up from the cot when Malcolm eventually reappeared from the bathroom. It seemed that the shower had passed without incident, although Malcolm's damp hair did look a little ruffled. He studiously avoided Trip's eyes as he crept back to the bed, and it hurt Trip to see how hard Malcolm was struggling not to let his exhaustion show as he crawled back under the covers.

_Well, here we go._

Trip walked over to the bed and settled himself on the edge, paying the cuff that was still attached to the bedframe no attention.

"Malcolm," he said, waiting. When the other man refused to react, he tried again. "Malcolm, please look at me."

He waited again and finally, Malcolm turned his eyes to meet his. His expression was still cold, although there was a flicker of something in his eyes that Trip could not quite put his finger on.

He continued as calmly as he could. "Malcolm, look, I'm sorry that it had to come to this. I never wanted to use this thing on you, I just didn't know what to do with you anymore."

Malcolm averted his eyes again and pressed his lips together. Trip's optimism began to wane, but he refused to give up so easily.

"Malcolm, I know you're angry, and I guess I would be too in your place. But the problem isn't gonna solve itself by not talkin' to me."

There was no answer.

"Malcolm, please." Trip noticed the desperation that had crept into his voice, and hated it. "I'm not doin' this to get back at you for anythin', it's just that I've no idea what to do to keep you in bed. And you've gotta stay in bed, or you'll never get well again. You know that."

Malcolm said nothing and didn't even look at Trip, who closed his eyes for a moment. This - the silent treatment - was about the worst thing Malcolm could do to him. Trip would have preferred it if Malcolm had yelled, argued, even kicked Trip out of the room. He could have dealt with that. Being ignored, however, treated as if he didn't even have a right to be in Malcolm's presence, was getting to him worse than anything else could have done. And Malcolm knew it. Oh yes, did he ever.

Trip took a deep breath and decided to give it one last try. "Malcolm, listen, I'm not going to beg. I don't wanna put that thing back on you and I won't, if you promise me that you're gonna stay in bed and not get up on your own. Okay?"

He waited, inwardly crossing his fingers that Malcolm would relent and accept his offer of ending this with both their dignities tattered but not completely torn apart. For a second or two, it seemed as if Malcolm wanted to say something, and Trip hoped with all his heart that Malcolm had decided to give in. The Englishman was stubborn as hell and could drive you mad with his refusal to listen to reason, but he wasn't in the habit of breaking his promises.

As he waited, however, the thin face grew distant again, and Trip knew that any hope of Malcolm responding to his offer had been in vain. He closed his eyes, forcing back the tears of anger and helplessness that were threatening to rise to the surface. When he was sure that he wouldn't start crying in front of Malcolm, he opened his eyes again and silently moved to the foot of the bed. Pulling the covers aside, he picked up the cuff and fastened it around Malcolm's left ankle, then activated the locking mechanism. The tears were threatening again, and this time he knew he would not be able to hold them back.

Without looking at Malcolm, he tugged the blanket back into place and turned away. He walked quickly, determined to leave the room before Malcolm noticed just how desperate he was. As he had closed the door behind himself, the tears started in earnest, and Trip slid down the wall and began to cry.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Malcolm, listen. I'm not going to beg. I don't wanna put that thing back on you and I won't, if you promise me that you're gonna stay in bed and not get up on your own. Okay?"

Trip's eyes were fixed on him, and Malcolm could see the despair and the plea in them. He knew that Trip _was_ begging, begging him to agree and end this whole wretched affair. And for a moment, Malcolm was tempted to do so, to give in and to hell with it all.

But he couldn't. The anger that was burning inside him kept his lips glued shut, and the moment passed. He saw Trip close his eyes, his jaw working, and then his partner turned away and walked to the foot of the bed. Malcolm laid his head back down on the pillows, pressing his teeth in the soft flesh of his lip and clenching his fists around the sheets as he felt Trip's fingers refitting the cuff.

Then the blanket was spread over his feet, and Malcolm heard Trip walk to the door. There was a soft noise as it clicked shut. He lay very still, listening for disappearing steps. Instead, however, there was a moment of silence, and then there was a soft thump, as if someone had leaned heavily against the wall next to the door, followed by a sound that could not have been anything else but a suppressed sob.

He closed his eyes. When he had woken up this morning with his head pounding, feeling tired and exhausted as he always did these days, and had found himself tied to the bed frame like some convict, he had thought that things could not get any worse. Now, no more than half an hour later, he had already been proven wrong.

He listened to the suppressed sounds of crying that carried in from the hallway, not really wanting to but unable to help himself, and felt a knot build in his chest.

_Don't go away_ , he thought. _Please, don't go away, Trip._ He wasn't entirely clear on what he would say to his partner if he came back in, but the mental image of Trip sitting on the corridor floor and crying was enough to make the lump in his throat spread and send a burning to his closed eyes. He reached up and covered his face with his hands, his fingers feeling icy on his hot skin.

_Trip, I'm sorry_ , he thought, and opened his mouth to call Trip back in, but the knot and the aching in his throat diminished the sound that came out of his mouth to a small croak. He bit his lower lip, trying to hold back the tears, pressing his fists against his eyelids.

After a while, he heard movement in front of the door, then steps descending the stairs. There was some rustling downstairs, and he heard Johnson's excited barking. The front door was opened and closed shut. Then there was silence.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Malcolm raised his hands off his face and opened his eyes, staring at the somewhat blurry image of the white ceiling. He knew that Trip was taking Johnson for a walk in the woods behind their house. His partner always did that when he was upset and needed to cool down.

Malcolm didn't think that there had been a time in his life when he had felt lower than he did at the moment. He couldn't even say that he had never wanted to hurt Trip like this. Truth was, he simply hadn't cared. He had been so occupied with his self-pity, with wallowing in his frustration that he hadn't bothered to think about what he was doing to Trip. He knew how badly Trip dealt with not being talked to, and in his cold anger Malcolm had instinctively done the one thing that he'd known would hurt Trip the most.

He closed his eyes to quell the tears that were threatening to spill over. Somehow, he felt he had no right to be crying right now. For over three weeks, ever since Phlox had placed him on bed rest, all he had been doing was trying to undermine Trip's efforts to help him. Trip had given up the work on the transporter project, had taken nursing leave and had agreed to stay home and help Malcolm with all the things that the sickness prevented him from doing himself, and all Malcolm had done in return was treat him like dogshit. Trip had never lost his patience, even though Malcolm had strained it again and again by stubbornly ignoring any advice whatsoever. And now, finally, Trip had ended up facing an impossible situation, in which he was forced to hurt Malcolm in order to help him.

_It's not fair_ , Malcolm thought, knowing that it was _him_ who hadn't been fair, not in the way he had treated Trip, nor in the fact that he hadn't even found it in himself to call Trip back and tell him all this. He turned his head and looked out of the window that faced the garden and the small forest that bordered on it. Rain was still pouring down, even more fiercely than before.

_What a bloody bastard I am_ , he thought, trying to ignore the choking feeling in his throat, the way his eyes were watering and the faint feeling in his head. _I'm so sorry, Trip._

-###-

Almost three hours after he had left, Trip followed a very exhausted but almost deliriously happy Johnson up the porch steps and unlocked the door to let the two of them in. The dog pushed inside as soon as the door had opened and headed straight for the living room, plopping down on the carpet, soaked and muddy as he was.

"Great, Johnny," Trip said as he shrugged out of his dripping wet jacket. "We just had that carpet dry cleaned."

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers forming spikes in the wet strands, and thought about the fact that it was more like three months ago that Malcolm had suddenly realized that the previously white carpet was taking on a rather grayish hue, especially Johnson's favorite sleeping spot right in the middle, and had sent Trip to take it to the cleaners.

The thought of his partner sent a twinge through Trip's stomach, but he resolutely pushed the feeling aside. He had thought about this morning's events at some length, and had come to a decision that would hopefully put an end to this unpleasant affair.

As Trip turned around, his eyes fell on the clock, and he started somewhat guiltily. He hadn't realized that he had been gone for such a long time. He knew that he should not have left at all, especially not when Malcolm was tied to the bed and even less able to help himself, but he had needed to get out of the house.

The deep hurt he had felt this morning was still there, but during his stroll through the woods, it had lost some of its intensity. From the moment when he had decided what he had to do, most of his torn feelings had dissipated, leaving a dull throb right below his chest that intensified when he thought of the cold, dismissive expression Malcolm had worn this morning. Now that he knew he would have to face Malcolm in less than a few minutes, a feeling of dread rose as well.

_Maybe he's not that mad anymore_ , Trip thought, but knew that this was probably wishful thinking. He had left Malcolm all alone, tied to the bed and unable even to go to the bathroom if he needed to, for three hours. It was more likely that by now, Malcolm's anger had even intensified.

Sighing, Trip climbed the stairs and stood in front of the bedroom door, listening intently for any sound of Malcolm's light snoring that would indicate that his partner was asleep. If Malcolm was sleeping, it would probably be better if he didn't wake him, but came back later on.

There was no sound from inside the room, though, and Trip briefly closed his eyes, trying to prepare himself for yet another assault of silent accusation, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Malcolm, who had obviously heard him, was facing towards the door. His expression was not the cold one from this morning, but it wasn't exactly an inviting one, either. Most of all, Malcolm looked sick, with feverish patches high on his cheekbones and red-rimmed, watery eyes. As Trip entered, their eyes met briefly, but Trip quickly looked away and took a few steps to the foot of the bed, kneeling down to unlock the restraint. He knew that if he didn't do this quickly, he'd lose his determination.

"I've been thinkin', Mal," he said while he opened first the lock on the cuff, then the one on the strap. "I don't think that I can do this. I can't keep you tied to the bed." He removed the cuff from Malcolm's ankle. For a moment, he sat there on his heels and held the restraint in one hand, thinking once more how damn ugly it looked. "I know that you probably won't listen to me and stay in bed now, either, but I guess we'll manage somehow. I..."

He trailed off. During his last words, Trip had raised his head to look at Malcolm, to find that his partner had lain back down on the pillows. What had made him fall silent, though, was the small, almost inaudible sob that his ears had picked up. Now that he wasn't talking anymore, he heard another one. He got to his feet. "Mal?"

Malcolm turned his head, and Trip realized that what he had thought to be moisture from watery eyes had been real tears. Malcolm was crying, biting his lip to keep the sobs inside.

"I'm sorry, Trip," he said in a low, tear-choked voice. "I'm so sorry for the way I treated you, I..."

He paused, closing his eyes for a moment, and as Trip got over his initial surprise, he quickly moved to the side of the bed and sat down next to Malcolm, putting a hand on his partner's shoulder.

"Hey," he said, and Malcolm looked at him, his eyes holding apprehension and a plea for forgiveness. All of a sudden, Trip felt like crying himself, and bit his lip. "Hey," he said again, trying to give his voice a calming tone. Malcolm turned his gaze away and raised a hand to wipe his eyes. Trip could see his body trembling as he tried to hold back the tears.

At the sight, all the anger Trip had felt at Malcolm disappeared. A part of him protested that he shouldn't let himself be manipulated like this, but he knew that Malcolm wasn't doing it to get back into his good graces. Malcolm was sick, tired and exhausted and simply unable to endure any battles of will right now.

Sliding closer to his partner, Trip gathered Malcolm into his arms. Malcolm let himself be pulled into a close embrace, and despite his efforts to hold them back, the tears spilled over. He shook his head.

"I'm so sorry, Trip," he whispered, and Trip tightened his arms around Malcolm's thin frame, feeling the unhealthy heat that was coming off his partner's body and trying to fight the lump that was building in his own throat.

"Shh," he said as he ran a hand through Malcolm's damp hair. "It's okay, Mal. Never mind what happened. It's okay now."

Malcolm curled up against him, burying his face in Trip's chest, and Trip simply held him, trying to offer as much comfort as possible. He suspected that this had not been brought on only by today's events, but had developed out of the anger and the frustration that had been building up in Malcolm ever since he had fallen ill.

He rubbed a hand gently up and down Malcolm's back, trying to soothe the other man, and pretty soon, Malcolm's sobs subsided, giving way to even, regular breathing. He had slid down a little, his head now resting in Trip's lap while he was lying curled up on the bed. Careful not to jostle Malcolm, Trip reached out and spread the blanket over his sleeping partner. Then he resumed stroking the dark hair and caressing the soft skin in the nape of Malcolm's neck.

"I'm sorry I left," he said in a low voice. He knew now that it had been a misconception to think that this morning's events had affected Malcolm less than they had affected him. Malcolm, however, hadn't had the possibility of distracting himself, and had probably been lying here and exhausting himself in self-incrimination all the time while Trip had been gone.

He stayed as he was for some time, until a tingling in his legs indicated that they had fallen asleep. Carefully, Trip lifted Malcolm off his lap and pushed a pillow underneath his partner's head. Malcolm didn't wake up, and Trip slowly got to his feet, swaying a little as the blood circulation returned to his lower legs.

Quietly, he made his way to the door, and, his hand resting on the handle, turned back once more to look at Malcolm. His partner had begun snoring lightly as he always did - it was less actual snoring and more a loud breathing - and Trip hoped that maybe, the events of yesterday night and this morning would have a positive outcome in so far that they would be able to deal with their current situation more easily, more aware of the other one's feelings.

The thought had a cheering effect on Trip, and when he went downstairs to fix Malcolm and himself some lunch, there was a smile playing about his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

For a week, Malcolm was a model patient. He allowed Trip to help him to the bathroom, he hardly complained when he had to be hooked up to the IV (Malcolm still suffered frequent periods of nausea), he slept long enough for him to be well-rested, and, most importantly, he took no more unscheduled strolls around the house. True to what Phlox had said, the virus seemed to be fighting a losing battle now that Malcolm was no longer feeding it by putting constant strain on his body. Malcolm's fever had balanced out to a steady 38 degrees during daytime, and in between his bouts of sickness, his appetite had returned enough for him to eat one or even two meals a day. Every time Trip entered the bedroom to find Malcolm sitting up and reading instead of buried under a heap of blankets, he couldn't help but smile. His partner's slow but continuous recovery took a heavy load off his mind.

Ever since Malcolm had started to feel better, however, his mood was on a downhill roll. Granted, he was trying not to let it show, but Trip noticed the way he would longingly gaze at the padds on his desk, or his growing impatience with his own immobility. Trip had consulted Phlox, who had suggested that Malcolm be allowed to spent one hour a day working, to "keep his mind off things". Malcolm, of course, was all for the idea, but in the meantime, Trip was beginning to think that Phlox' plan had backfired. Malcolm's idea of "one hour" didn't have much to do with the actual time span; in his eyes, "one hour" seemed to equal "as long as I need to finish this". And getting him to give up his padds was like trying to remove a cat from its favorite armchair; Malcolm would grouse and grumble and finally retreat to a sulky silence when Trip insisted on separating him from his EM field calculations. It was turning out to be a daily issue, and Trip was starting to wish that he hadn't listened to Phlox' advice. Malcolm could be very convincing when it came to extending his allotted working period, and Trip found it harder every time to coax him into leaving it at that for today.

One evening, after Malcolm had pored over his padds for more than one and a half hours, Trip decided to put his foot down. He set the dinner tray with the soup down and walked over to the bed, crossing his arms in front of his chest in an as he hoped no-nonsense gesture.

"Malcolm."

Malcolm didn't even raise his eyes and continued to frown down at his calculations. "Just a moment, love."

"You've had a moment," Trip said, pronouncing the words very precisely. "In fact, you've had quite a few moments. Now put the padds aside."

This time, Malcolm did look up, but only briefly. "I just need a few more minutes to finish this."

Trip sighed. "C'mon, Mal. You know that you're not gonna be done in a few minutes and anyway, it's been too many minutes already. Thirty-seven minutes, in fact."

Malcolm frowned at him. "Aren't you the one always telling me not to be so, and I quote, "anal-retentive"?"

"I'm not bein' anal-retentive, Malcolm, and you know it. Phlox said an hour, and you've been workin' for more than half an hour longer than that. Now put those padds aside."

"I will, when I have finished this." Malcolm bent back down over his calculations.

Trip slowly counted to ten, and added another ten before he was sure he could speak in a calm tone. "Malcolm, put them aside. Right now."

Malcolm didn't even raise his head and only waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. It was the last straw dropping into place, and Trip stepped forward and snatched the padds away before Malcolm knew what was happening.

"Sorry, Malcolm, but time's over."

"Trip!" Malcolm's pale cheeks reddened with anger. "I told you, I only needed a few more minutes!"

Trip saved Malcolm's data and switched the padds off, then placed them in the desk drawer. "The EM field's still gonna be there in the mornin', Mal. Right now, you need to eat and then go to sleep. You know you're not supposed to be workin' so hard."

Malcolm's eyes flickered back and forth between Trip and the desk. Trip, who recognized the look on his partner's face only too well, shook his head in warning.

"Don't even try to get them back, Malcolm, or they'll be gone for good. We agreed on one hour, and one hour it's gonna be."

Malcolm's lips formed a thin line. "I'm not a child, Trip. I can take care of myself."

Trip sighed. "I know you can, Malcolm, but if you don't listen to me and Dr. Phlox, then there's not a lot we can do but take your stuff away or..."

_Tie you down_ , he had been about to say, but stopped himself a second before the words had left his mouth. It wouldn't be fair to bring it up now, after they had both apologized and agreed to forget about the incident.

"Anyway, you can't spend all night broodin' over your calculations. There'll be time enough tomorrow to finish them."

It was obvious that Malcolm disagreed, but he said nothing more and quietly accepted the tray Trip set down in front of him. He picked up the spoon and began to eat, slowly, silently. Trip struggled with himself not to let Malcolm's sulking get the better of him; he had done the right thing, and didn't need to apologize for anything. Suddenly, as he watched the spoon travel up to Malcolm's mouth and back down again, he had to suppress the urge to laugh.

_You got me wrapped around your little finger, you know that?_ he thought, shaking his head at himself. There was no one who could turn him into a big pile of mush like his partner could, and it hardly took more than a soft look from those gray eyes to get Malcolm what he wanted. It was what was making this whole nursing business so damn trying. Trip wasn't used to denying Malcolm anything; maybe because under normal circumstances, Malcolm asked for so little. Now, however, Malcolm wanted - demanded - his independence back, and Trip, of all people, was the one stuck with reminding the Englishman of the limitations of his illness.

He watched Malcolm finish his soup, releasing a sigh of relief when the tray was handed back to him with a quiet "thank you". Obviously, Malcolm had decided not to resort to the silent treatment again.

Trip set the tray down on the desk and returned to the edge of the bed. Malcolm had lain back on his pillow, his eyes tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling and then coming to rest on Trip. And then he smiled; his trademark "reconciliation smile" that was only a small, almost shy twitch of the lips. At the sight, Trip could feel his insides rapidly transforming into the aforementioned pile of mush.

He leaned down for a kiss and was met by dry, soft lips. "I'm sorry I'm such a pain in the arse," Malcolm whispered. "I don't know how you put up with me."

Trip ran his fingers over the hot forehead, then began to explore the dark brown hair. "Wouldn't have it any other way," he said, and it was true.

He continued to stroke Malcolm's hair, feeling a twinge of worry at the heat that was emanating from the other man's skin. Malcolm's eyes had closed, and when his breathing began to even out, Trip didn't have the heart to wake him up again. Malcolm didn't like going to sleep without brushing his teeth, but once supposedly wouldn't hurt. And at least Malcolm wouldn't be awake when he took his temperature, a procedure the Englishman felt was "undignified". Trip took care of the offending business as carefully as he could, frowning when he saw the digits on the display. _39.5 Â°C_. He sighed. Extending his working time, as much as it might have helped Malcolm's morale, had done little good for his physical condition; his temperature hadn't been that high in five days. Trip considered giving Malcolm one of Phlox' fever reducers, but dismissed the idea when he remembered that the medication would frequently give Malcolm a headache the next day.

_Maybe it's best if he sweats it out_ , he thought as he tucked Malcolm in and made sure that he was resting comfortably. _And as to finishing the calculations tomorrow... maybe I can get Johnson to eat the padds._

Chuckling at the idea, Trip left the room and quietly closed the door behind himself.

-###-

When Malcolm woke up, he lay still for a few moments, trying to penetrate the hazy layer of sleepiness that was still surrounding him. Something was different than usual. Something about the light.

Slowly, he turned onto his side, and faced the interior of his quarters. He frowned. There was something wrong about the room, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The slight blur that seemed to be lying over his senses somehow hindered his perception.

_I have to get going_ , he thought, and as soon as the thought had formulated in his head, he knew that it was the truth; he had to get going, he needed to get out of his quarters right now.

He sat up, and paused for a moment as a dizzy spell made his head spin. Then he pushed his feet over the side of the bed and stood, swaying slightly. The floor underneath his bare feet felt wrong, too soft, too warm, not at all like the cool metal panels of the floor in his quarters on Enterprise.

Slowly and unsteadily, he began to make his way towards the dark outline of the door. His eyes fell on Trip, who was sleeping, lying on his stomach with his arms sprawled across the bed and the blanket pulled up to his waist. It was how Trip always looked in his sleep. Something seemed off, though.

_What is he doing over here?_ Malcolm thought. _The bed's back there._

He realized that Trip was sleeping on an extra cot, and wondered why that would be. Had they had a fight? Malcolm couldn't remember an argument with his partner, but come to think of it, he couldn't remember much aside from hazy images that slid away as soon as he tried to focus on them. Maybe something else had happened. In any case, he needed to leave now. He had places to go and things to do.

Silently, so as not to wake Trip, he continued towards the door. He pushed down the handle - the movement seemed wrong, too, but _everything_ seemed wrong, so Malcolm didn't pay the feeling a lot of attention - and stepped into the corridor.

The lights were turned off. That was weird. Usually, there were at least dimmed lights in the corridor, even during night time. Right now, however, the corridor was illuminated only by some dim, far-away source of light that dyed everything grey and still.

_Maybe the power is down_ , Malcolm thought, but then realized that if that were the case, Trip would be in Engineering, trying to find the problem, not sound asleep in Malcolm's quarters.

Before he could follow this train of thought any further, though, he started as he noticed a movement in the corridor. A huge and pitch-black _something_ had stepped out of the shadows and was now moving towards him. Malcolm felt a rush of adrenaline run through him, and his muscles tensed in case the stranger would attack. After a moment, though, he relaxed as he realized that he was looking at a rather huge, but probably harmless dog.

_Since when are there dogs on Enterprise?_ he wondered. _Aside from Porthos, that is._

He got the feeling that there was something very strange going on, and his urge to go and find out what it was intensified. Malcolm passed the dog that looked at him with wide, pale eyes that shone in the darkness. He heard it give a small whine, and made a low shushing sound, not wanting the dog to wake Trip. Then he slowly began to descend the stairs, hearing his own heartbeat loud and fast in his ears.

The dizziness had not relented, and when he was halfway down the stairs, he had to pause for a moment, holding on to the banister and taking deep, slow breaths. He swallowed hard as a surge of nausea made his stomach clench, then continued his descent, trying to ignore the trembling of his legs.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, he looked around, trying to determine which way he had to go. He did not seem to be familiar with this junction, which was very odd, since he knew all of Enterprise's corridors. He could have found his way around blind if he'd had to.

At the moment, however, he had no idea where the doors to his right and his left led. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to try the one to his right, feeling a hunch that told him that it would bring him closer to his destination.

When he opened the door - again, the idea of a handle and a door that swung on two hinges seemed off to him - he knew that he had chosen the right way. The room itself was uninteresting, there was a table and a counter, and something that looked like a stove, of all things. Across the room, however, Malcolm could make out the outline of another door. The image was a little fuzzy around the edges, but all of a sudden, he knew that this door was what he had been looking for.

He quickly crossed the room, trying to ignore the way his legs were trembling, not entirely convinced whether they actually wanted to carry his weight any longer, and turned the door knob. A sudden panic flared up in him when it wouldn't move, and he began to rattle at the knob, his breathing quickening, until he remembered that the door was locked. Of course it was, he had locked it himself. Or had he?

Dismissing the question as irrelevant, he felt for the small button that would unlock the door. Then he tried the knob again, and a rush of relief ran through him as it turned easily under his fingers. He pulled the door open and winced at the onslaught of cold that hit him as he did.

For a moment, he stood there in the doorway, the wind that was blowing in from outside making him tremble, and momentarily didn't know what he was doing here, at night, outside in the cold. Suddenly, he felt a little scared, and his thoughts returned to the image of Trip sleeping back in his quarters.

Had that been just a moment ago? Somehow he couldn't remember whether the image was a memory of tonight or longer ago. However, a feeling of dread was creeping up on him, a feeling that Trip was not sleeping in bed, safe and secure, but that his partner was out there somewhere, in the dark and the cold. At the thought, Malcolm felt his stomach clench again, and he ventured a step outside onto the porch, then another.

_Trip_ , he thought, the dread evolving into a nagging worry. _Trip, where are you?_

As he crossed the moist grass, Malcolm tried to ignore the way the wind was pulling on his clothes that were too thin to keep away any of the biting coldness. By now, he was already shaking with it, and his knees felt like pudding. But he needed to keep going. Trip was somewhere out there.

Malcolm raised his eyes to the dark sky and saw that this planet obviously had only one satellite, like Earth. He could only see one, anyway, a thin white crescent that provided close to no light at all. There were countless stars, however, small dots in the otherwise dark sky. _It does look a lot like Earth_ , he thought.

As he set his left foot down, suddenly his knee gave way, and he stumbled and almost fell. He quickly returned his attention to where he was going, concentrating on keeping his balance, confused and annoyed by the way his head was beginning to spin. There was definitely something wrong with him, but he didn't know, or didn't remember, what had happened. It didn't matter, anyway. He needed to keep moving.

Laboriously, he continued on his unsteady way. After a while, the quality of the ground under his feet changed. Instead of soft and grassy, it felt earthy, and from time to time Malcolm stepped on a rock or a stick. Each time when he felt the small prick and instinctively pulled his foot back, he had to fight for his balance. His surroundings were darker now, too, and all around him there were dark shapes and moving shadows, nothing clear enough to determine what he was looking at. The dizziness was making his vision blur and grey out from time to time, and the nausea had returned as well, making his stomach clench and turn almost rhythmically. The slight uneasiness he had felt before had grown into actual fear that was intensifying the shaking of his body. He was confused, and all of a sudden realized that he had no idea what he was doing, where he was or how he had come to be here. The only thing he was aware of was the cold that was piercing enough to hurt, the weakness in his legs and the nausea that was beginning to choke him.

There was a jolt, and suddenly he felt the moist ground under his fingers, distantly realizing that he had fallen to his knees. He heard a roaring deep inside his ears, and his fear turned into cold panic as he realized that it sounded like a waterfall, a huge one that would relentlessly pull you under if you got caught in it. Malcolm froze, not daring to move an inch. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, he didn't know whether he was maybe kneeling no more than a foot from the dropoff that descended to the wild, angry water.

Malcolm buried his fingers into the muddy ground, feeling the moisture, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stay upright despite the way the ground had begun seesawing underneath him. The spinning in his head quickened, and suddenly Malcolm didn't know anymore whether the water was before or behind him, and the next second he was falling, losing his grip on the world as he was swirled away into darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

_He was looking for something, something he couldn't find, and it was driving him crazy. He swept all the padds off his desk in the hope that it would turn up, but it didn't. He opened the fridge and began to tear out its contents, milk cartons bursting on the floor (Malcolm was so going to kill him), beer cans rolling towards the kitchen door. It wasn't there, and it was driving him insane. He brought his fist down on the fridge, the loud thump reverberating in his ears like the slam of a door. It wasn't there. It just wasn't-_

Trip awoke with a start. He couldn't remember what his dream had been about, but it had left him with a feeling of distinct unease. He blinked and found that he was wide awake, even though the light coming through the blinds was diffuse at best. A glance at his alarm clock confirmed his guess: It was only 05:30.

Trip plopped back down on his pillow. _Great_.

The dream had been really weird, about... looking for something. Something that was missing. And about milk cartons being dropped on the floor. Trip chuckled. Good thing it had been a dream, Malcolm would kill him if he spilled milk all over the kitchen floor...

_Malcolm_. Trip looked over at the bed and sat up so quickly that his head spun. Malcolm was gone, the covers trailing onto the floor, the pillow lying on the bedside rug.

For a second or two, Trip stared at the empty bed, then rubbed a hand over the back of his head and got to his feet. Malcolm hadn't gotten up on his own for almost a week now, but maybe this time had been an emergency. Maybe he had really needed to go and hadn't wanted to wake Trip.

_I bet he's stranded in the bathroom again_ , Trip thought and walked a little faster. If Malcolm had spent half the night sitting on the toilet lid because he couldn't get up again...

_Leave it to the stubborn cuss not to call me_ , he thought and reached for door handle, determined to give Malcolm a piece of his mind. _I **told** him that he's not supposed to-_

The bathroom was empty; no shivering Malcolm sitting on the toilet lid, or worse, passed out on the rug in front of the sink. Trip frowned. He couldn't imagine why Malcolm would have gone anywhere else, or why he hadn't returned. Somehow, he had a feeling that Malcolm had been gone for quite a while.

Still frowning, Trip left the bathroom. The unease the dream had kindled in his mind intensified as he looked at the abandoned bed.

Where in the hell had Malcolm gone?

Trip went over to the door leading to the hallway and found it standing ajar. He _knew_ he had closed it last night before he had gone to bed, and Malcolm had been sleeping at the time.

Beginning to get seriously worried, Trip stepped into the corridor. His foot found something warm and hairy and he grabbed the door a second before he would have fallen.

"Johnny! That's not your bed!"

The dog, who was sprawled on the carpet, raised his head and smiled a benevolent dog smile, as if to say "Don't you worry yourself about it, old boy". Trip decided to postpone his lecture to a later point in time, and return to the problem at hand.

"Have you seen Malcolm, Johnny?"

At the mention of Malcolm's name, Johnson levered himself to his feet and whined, wagging his tail.

"We're not goin' for a walk, boy. I'm just lookin' for Malcolm."

The tail wagged even harder, and the dog's ears that usually drooped over his eyes perked up. Trip wasn't sure what to make of Johnson's behavior, but right now he didn't have the time to worry about it.

"Malcolm!" he called, his voice sounding strange in the quiet hallway. "Malcolm, are you downstairs?"

There was no answer, and Trip began to walk down the stairs. Johnson followed him, his tail wagging incessantly, and as they arrived in the deserted living room, he barked once. Trip ignored him and went into the kitchen, expecting to find Malcolm sitting at the table or, of all things, standing at the open fridge and having a drink of milk. He had already opened his mouth to tell his partner off for not waking him when he realized that there was no one there. Then he saw the backdoor, standing wide open.

"Oh hell."

Trip couldn't remember when he had last moved so fast this early in the morning. He practically ran for his jacket, and almost stumbled when he slipped into his old sneakers. Johnson jumped around him, barking and wagging his tail, ecstatic that Trip had gotten out of bed at the break of dawn just to take him for a walk.

"Johnny, stop it!"

Johnson was not deterred, and Trip's hurried crossing of the kitchen was accompanied by more barking and a whirlwind of a dog who seemed determined to get in the way as much as possible.

"Johnny, you go back now, or-"

Trip stopped in his tracks, looking down at the dog.

"You saw him leave, didn't you? Malcolm? You saw him?"

Johnson barked, his tail wagging like crazy.

"Okay then, let's go. Maybe you can find him."

He doubted that the dog had actually understood what he wanted, but even so, Johnson did not lack the enthusiasm of trying. He bounded out the backdoor into the cold and gray morning, Trip following him with his jacket pulled tightly around his shoulders. The planks of the porch creaked under his feet, and he wondered what the hell had prompted Malcolm to wander off into the night, and in late winter at that.

"Malcolm!" he called out again, but there was no answer, and he hadn't really expected one, either. The optimistic part of his mind that had entertained a small hope of finding Malcolm on the porch swing was disappointed, and a quick look around confirmed his suspicion. Malcolm wasn't anywhere in sight.

At the other end of the garden, Johnson barked loudly, and Trip walked down the porch steps and began to cross the lawn. There was a layer of thin fog hanging over the grass, and the cold, humid air made him shiver. If Malcolm was somewhere out here, had maybe passed out... Trip quickened his pace. Malcolm's temperature had been really high last night, and if he had woken up in the middle of the night, feverish and delirious, he could have gone anywhere without realizing where he was, or where he was going.

Walking faster still, Trip followed the small path that led from their garden towards the woods. Johnson trotted alongside him, uttering the occasional soft whine as if he was picking up on Trip's anxiety. Darkness was still lurking in between the trees, and Trip felt a new stab of worry at the sight. If Malcolm had left the path in a feverish haze, stumbling into the woods on bare feet and clad only in a pair of thin pajama bottoms and a t-shirt...

Johnson barked excitedly, and Trip raised his head. A few meters ahead, there was something dark on the path, lying half-in and half-out of a puddle of rainwater. It wasn't moving, but Trip had no doubt as to what it was. He crossed the distance in a few large strides and crouched down next to the crumpled figure of his partner, touching first his face, then his hands. Both felt icy under his fingers.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm moved slightly and moaned a little. Trip slid an arm under his shoulders and lifted him up so that he wasn't lying on the muddy ground anymore.

"Malcolm, what happened? What are you doin' out here? God, you're freezin'!"

Slowly, as if the cold were slowing them down, Malcolm's eyelids fluttered open, but only a crack.

"T-trip?"

"Yeah," Trip said, trying to project a calm he didn't feel. "It's me. Why did you come out here, Malcolm?"

Malcolm blinked and raised a feeble hand to ward off Johnson, who was trying to lick his face and neck.

"I... my quarters... I had to... had to find you..."

"Find me? But I was right there with you in the bedroom, remember?"

"Had to find you," Malcolm repeated, the old stubbornness creeping into his voice, and Trip decided that the argument could wait. What could not wait, however, was getting Malcolm back inside. It was obvious that Malcolm wasn't in any condition to walk, not even if Trip supported him, and there was no way Trip would leave him here to get the flitter out of the garage.

"Malcolm, I'm gonna have to carry you," he told him, expecting angry protests and determined to ignore them. "We've got to get you back inside."

Malcolm said nothing and only blinked again, and Trip realized that the other man was more out of it than he had initially assumed; Malcolm in his right mind would never ever allow Trip or anyone else to pick him up and carry him anywhere.

_I guess it's just as well_ , Trip thought as he got to one knee and slid his other arm under Malcolm's knees. _At least he won't give me hell about this later._

His first attempt at getting to his feet failed, and he tried again, staggering as he had finally managed to straighten up with the heavy load weighing down on him. Under normal circumstances Trip doubted he would have gotten very far with Malcolm in his arms, and not only because Malcolm would have struggled out of his grip and then killed Trip for the assault on his dignity. The Englishman was naturally athletic and, in spite of his less-than-average height, certainly no "featherweight". In the past weeks, however, Malcolm had lost at least six kilos, and it was easier to carry him than it should have been.

Slowly, Johnson following closely on his heels, Trip walked down the path and past the last trees, then walked across the lawn towards the house. Malcolm's eyes had closed again, and Trip could feel him shivering in the cold wind.

"Just a few more meters," he said, not sure whether he was talking to Malcolm or himself. His arms were beginning to ache fiercely, and he swayed as he climbed the porch steps, regaining his balance a moment before he would have stumbled and fallen. Johnson had run ahead and was sitting in the kitchen, waiting with his tongue hanging out for Trip to follow him.

Trip carried Malcolm inside and shut the back door with his foot. He was no longer cold but sweating from the exertion, and thought his arms would fall off if he had to keep this up any longer. As quickly as he could with the heavy weight, he crossed the kitchen and went into the living room, where he laid Malcolm down on their large sectional couch. He would have preferred to take him straight back to bed, but there was no way he could carry him up the stairs.

Trip spread a quilt over Malcolm and quickly stroked the damp, dark hair. "Be right back, Mal. Stay, Johnny."

The dog obeyed and remained sitting next to the sofa, his nose resting on Malcolm's shoulder. Trip ran up the stairs and into their bedroom, gathering up Malolm's thick duvet and as many blankets as he could find. He was already on his way out the door when he remembered that Malcolm's pajamas were soaked with rainwater and mud from the ground he had been lying on. He deposited the duvet and blankets next to the door and returned to the bedroom, pulling Malcolm's warmest pajamas out of the closet. The bedroom he left behind was a mess, with the closet standing open and Malcolm's sleepwear strewn all over the floor, but Trip didn't even spare it a glance. He picked up the blankets and hurried back downstairs, where Johnson was still keeping a watchful eye on the sick man.

Trip walked over to the sofa and laid the pile of blankets on the floor, then sat down next to Malcolm and carefully removed the quilt so he could begin to pull off Malcolm's soaked t-shirt.

"Come on, darlin', you'll be feelin' better in no time."

Ten minutes later, Malcolm was dry and warm again, sleeping under a pile of blankets with a hot-water bottle under his feet and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Johnson had sprawled out on the carpet next to him, his tail wagging from time to time to let everybody know that he was taking good care of his human friend.

For a moment, Trip stood in front of the couch, allowing himself a moment of pure relief that he had woken up early enough, before his partner had been gone too long. The consequences of Malcolm's nightly excursion would be bad enough as it was, but maybe he had still been in time to prevent the worst. Or so he hoped.

His eyes still on the quietly snoring heap of blankets, Trip went over to the vidphone and selected a code from the directory, then punched the button to connect his call. A waiting sign appeared on the screen, and inwardly, he crossed his fingers.

_Come on, be there. Please._

After a second, the image came to life, and a familiar face appeared on the screen.

"Commander?"

"Phlox," Trip said, and let out a sigh of relief. "I think we've got a problem here."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Now tell me, Porthos, did you have a nice week?" Captain Jonathan Archer looked at his dog, who was sitting on the passenger seat of the flitter, the expression in his eyes a rather unhappy one. Porthos hated flying in a flitter.

At the sight, Archer smiled and reached over to pet Porthos' head. "Almost there, old boy."

He returned his attention to the highway, thinking that his statement wasn't quite true. They were on their way back home from Erica's place a few hundred kilometers north of San Francisco, where Captain Hernandez lived with her sister Jocelyn and five cats, and they still had most of the way to go.

_Good thing Porthos likes cats_ , Jon had said when Erica had suggested that they leave the dog with Jocelyn while they went rock-climbing. Actually, "liking" was the wrong expression, "being afraid of them" was more like it. Jocelyn had told him, though, that the cats and Porthos hadn't had any major disagreements, and that everything had gone smoothly. All the same, Archer was getting the impression that despite his wariness towards the flitter, Porthos was altogether quite happy to return home.

_As am I_ , he thought. As nice as spending a week with Erica had been, he was looking forward to the three quiet and peaceful weeks that were left of his leave. He would spend the time reading, relaxing, and especially not working. Erica had told him that she had a few days off during the last week of his vacation, and maybe the two of them could do something together then. And Jon was certainly planning on paying Trip and Malcolm a visit, as he had promised Trip when they had talked on the vid last week.

"Actually," he said and looked over at Porthos, "since we're already out here, we could drop by right now, what d'you think?"

The idea had just popped into his head, and he was quite liking it. Trip and Malcolm's house was located halfway between Erica's place and San Francisco, and although Archer liked the idea of his peaceful apartment waiting for him, the thought of squeezing in a chat with Trip before he got there seemed like a good one to him. And he would get an update on how Malcolm was doing.

_Better, hopefully_ , he thought. _But he should be better by now, it's been over four weeks, after all_. He checked the chronometer that was integrated in the dashboard. Three o'clock; getting to Trip and Malcolm's place should take him about fifteen more minutes, which was as good a time for a visit as any. And the two of them would surely be home, Archer didn't think that Malcolm was already doing well enough to leave the house.

"And you'll get to see Johnson," Archer told Porthos and smiled at the beagle, who at the mention of his big friend's name pricked his ears and gave a small yip. Archer laughed. "Yeah, I knew you'd like that."

About twenty minutes later, Archer turned into his friends' driveway and set the flitter down. He got out, and Porthos jumped down onto the gravel as well, obviously relieved at getting out of the flitter. The small dog bounded towards the house, tail wagging, and Archer followed at a slower pace.

As he climbed the few steps to the front door, Archer's eyes fell on the small metal plate below the doorbell, and read the names printed on it, Reed and Tucker. After the year that had passed since Trip and Malcolm had moved into their shared home, Archer had gotten used to seeing those two names on the nameplate. In the beginning, though, the idea of Trip and Malcolm actually moving in together had caused Archer some worry. Granted, at the time Enterprise had returned to Earth, the two of them had been a couple for over four years - Trip had told him once that they had discovered their feelings for each other in the course of that fateful shuttlepod incident in the first year of Enterprise's mission - but Archer had not been able to imagine their relationship working out under normal, settled conditions. He had not been sure whether Malcolm could really meet Trip's expectations of a happy relationship; the Englishman had always seemed so distant, cool even, and not at all like Trip, who always set his heart on everything he did, his love life being no exception.

Archer had been proven wrong, though. Over the last year, he had not only realized that Malcolm was the best thing that had ever happened to Trip, he had also gotten to know the Englishman from a different side than the "Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Armory Officer" one. Now that Archer wasn't Malcolm's Captain anymore, Malcolm had finally begun to relax around him, and Archer had discovered some of the humor and the kindness Trip had always told him about. Today, Archer and Malcolm were not best buddies, and Archer guessed they would never be, since the Englishman was simply not the type to be anybody's "best buddy", but the terrible awkwardness had eventually dissipated.

Porthos' impatient barks reminded Archer that he had not come here to muse on life's schemes and complexities, and he reached out and rang the doorbell.

"Sit, Porthos," he told the excited dog, and Porthos plopped down on his hindquarters, tilting his head and curiously looking up at Archer, who smiled and then after a few moments looked up at the still closed door.

_Maybe they're not home, after all_ , he thought. He was just about to raise his hand and knock - he wouldn't ring the doorbell again - when the lock gave a clicking sound and the door swung open to reveal Trip Tucker standing in the doorway.

At the sight of his friend, Archer had to resist the urge to raise a surprised eyebrow. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, Trip was still in his pajama bottoms, which he had combined with an old, rather worn-out red sweatshirt. His feet were bare, and the look on his face was that of a man who had just been woken up from a restless sleep.

There was a moment of silence, Trip squinting at Archer as if he had been expecting someone else. Then a smile appeared on the engineer's face.

"Hey, Jon," he said.

Archer returned the smile. "Is it a bad time?" he asked, thinking that it was certainly quite some time ago that he had seen Trip look so tired. Trip shook his head, and stepped aside to wave Archer inside.

"Naw, come on in," he said, suppressing a yawn. "I'm sorry for this," and he waved a hand in the general direction of his clothes, "I was just takin' a nap. We had a rather... chaotic night."

Not reacting to Archer's inquiring look, Trip turned towards the kitchen.

"Make yourself at home," he called over his shoulder. "I'm just gettin' myself somethin' to drink. You want anything?"

Archer followed Porthos, who had already bounced into the living room to greet Johnson, who was sprawled on his doggy bed and indulgently endured the small beagle's enthusiastic greeting rituals. "Just a glass of water, please," Archer called into the kitchen, then sat down on one of the two armchairs, smiling as Johnson almost drowned Porthos by sweeping his huge tongue across the small dog's face.

His eyes fell on the large couch, and the ruffled quilt and the squashed up pillows that showed signs of Trip's afternoon nap, and wondered what Trip had been talking about when he had mentioned his "chaotic night". Archer knew that Trip rarely slept during the day; he wasn't a morning person and had occasionally been known to sleep well past noon, but he was no friend of afternoon naps.

When the engineer entered the living room, a glass of water in one hand and a mug in the other, Archer looked up at him. "So," he said, "what's been going on?" He accepted the glass Trip handed him and took a sip. "How's Malcolm doing?"

At that, Trip sighed and plopped down on the sofa, sliding down until he was sprawled on the seat and resting his feet on the coffee table. It was a moment before he answered. "Not so well," he said then, his tone a mixture of worry and resignation. Archer frowned.

"Still? I would've thought he'd gotten rid of that bug by now."

Trip nodded, and took a sip from his drink. "He was doin' quite well until yesterday," he said. "Phlox even allowed him to work an hour a day. His temperature was goin' down, and he was eatin' again. Last night, though..." Trip shook his head, and laughed a little, even though it sounded rather frustrated to Archer. "Last night he got delusional from the fever and decided to take a stroll in the woods, and it wasn't 'til this mornin' when I finally woke up and noticed he was gone."

Archer was silent for a moment, digesting the information. "Is he okay?" he asked then, and Trip nodded.

"More or less," he said with a sigh. "When I found him, he was barely conscious, and half frozen. I got him home and tried to warm him up the best I could, and then I called Phlox. The doc said that he should be okay. But it's gonna cost him at least two weeks of recovery time."

Meeting Trip's eyes, Archer recognized his friend's ambivalent feelings. He knew that Trip loved Malcolm more than anything else, and he was sure that Trip would continue to give his partner the same dedicated care as he had until now. But he could also see that Trip was beginning to grow tired of the setbacks and the constant disappointments, of Malcolm getting sicker and sicker despite everything that Trip was doing for him. The situation was draining Trip of all his energy and spirit, and Archer was starting to worry that the way his friend was going, he would be heading for a breakdown before too long. The way Trip was looking at him, Archer suspected that Trip knew that as well.

"Trip, you know that I meant it when I told you that if you needed a hand, I'd be happy to help out," he said. Trip turned his eyes away and nodded.

"Thanks, Jon," he said, looking down into the mug he was holding in his hands. "I... You know, I don't know if Malcolm would be comfortable with the idea." Trip raised his head and smiled somewhat lopsidedly. "He can be weird that way."

Archer smiled as well. "I know what you mean." He grew serious again. "Tell me the minute you decide otherwise."

Trip nodded. "I will." He fell silent for a moment, the sighed and got up, putting his mug down. "I gotta go upstairs and check how Malcolm's doin'. Be right back."

Archer got up as well. "I'll come with you. I haven't seen Malcolm in ages. Might as well say hello."

Trip just nodded and steered towards the staircase. Archer followed him. He was concerned for Trip, because it was becoming very obvious that the whole thing was getting to him, but he was also worried about Malcolm. When Phlox had diagnosed the virus, the doctor had told them that after two, maybe three weeks of bed rest, the worst would be over. It had been over four weeks now, and Malcolm still hadn't gotten much better. Archer refused to think that this meant that the worst was yet to come, but he couldn't help worrying. He would have liked to help in some way, but tried not to resent Trip's renewed refusal of his offer. After all, it really was Trip's decision.

Archer was half-way up the stairs when Trip, who was a few steps ahead of him, froze for a second and uttered a small, "Oh no." Then the engineer quickened his pace, hurrying up the few remaining steps, and Archer took the next two in one stride to be able to see what Trip had discovered. As he turned around the bend in the staircase, he was able to overlook the upstairs hallway, and knew what had startled Trip.

The bedroom door at the end of the corridor was standing open, and half-way down the hallway, there was Malcolm, with his head lowered and one hand on the wall for support as he shuffled towards the stairs.

At the sight, Archer almost started a little. He had seen Malcolm last about three weeks ago, and had thought then that Malcolm did look pretty unwell. Compared to now, however, he'd looked well-rested and in perfect health. The man half-leaning against the corridor wall was almost painfully slim, his pajamas hanging loosely on his thin frame. There was sweat gleaming on Malcolm's forehead, and the only color in his face were the red unhealthy patches on his cheeks and the shadows beneath his eyes.

When Trip hurried towards him, Malcolm stopped and raised his head to squint at his partner.

"Malcolm!" Trip came to stand in front of the other man and put an arm around his shoulders. "What are you doing up? You gotta stay in bed."

Malcolm let go of the wall and leaned against Trip. Archer could see tremors running through the smaller man's body.

"I was looking for you," Malcolm said in a slurry, hoarse voice. It was spoken so softly that Archer, who had taken the remaining few steps and was standing at the top of the stairs now, almost didn't catch it.

Trip sighed and wrapped his arms around Malcolm, pulling him close. "Mal," he said, and Archer thought he heard something bordering on despair in his tone. "Mal, Mal, Mal. What am I gonna do with you?"

Malcolm neither answered nor moved, his face buried in Trip's chest. Trip stayed where he was as well, and looking at the two exhausted men, Archer came to a decision.

"Hi there, Malcolm," he said, taking a few steps closer.

Malcolm slowly raised his head and blearily looked at him. He blinked once, obviously processing the information that Archer was here, as well. "Oh," he said then, and Archer saw him trying to straighten up a little. "Hello, sir."

Usually, Archer would correct Malcolm and tell him that he should call him Jon. At the moment, however, Archer thought that the respect Malcolm had for higher ranking officers might come in handy. He gave Malcolm a friendly enough look while he tried for a stern tone of voice. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Malcolm had moved away from Trip a little, and at Archer's words he blinked again, then nodded. "Yes, I was just..." He raised a hand and vaguely indicated the bedroom door behind him. "... just looking for Trip..."

He trailed off, looking lost and overall quite miserable, and Archer almost felt sorry for trying to manipulate the Englishman by using his Captain tone on him. He ignored the feeling, though.

"Well, now you've found him," he said, his tone kind but resolute. "So let's get you back in bed now, shall we?"

Malcolm nodded, obediently turning around and beginning to creep towards the bedroom door. Trip, who had silently watched the short exchange, looked up to give Archer a grateful glance, then helped his partner down the corridor and into the bedroom.

Archer followed at a few steps' distance and remained standing in the doorway while Trip helped Malcolm lie down and tucked him in. Malcolm, exhausted as he was, was already dozing off when Trip turned away from the bed and returned to where Jon was standing. Archer let his friend pass him by, then followed Trip out of the room and pulled the door almost shut behind himself.

He turned around and looked at Trip, who was standing in the corridor behind him, answering his gaze with a rather helpless and resigned expression. Archer raised his eyebrows.

"Trip," he said quietly so as not to wake the sick man in the room behind them, "I really think you need some help here."

Trip took in a breath, then let it out in a defeated sigh. "Yeah," he nodded, "I guess I do."


	10. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Johnny, come back right now!"

Johnson obediently turned around and trotted back to where Trip was unloading a picnic basket and blanket, his surf board and the bag with their towels and sunscreen. The dog's sleepy eyes travelled over the things as if to say "What on Earth do you need all the stuff for?", then turned to Malcolm, who was climbing out of the flitter.

Trip followed Johnson's eyes, and resisted the urge to ask his partner if he needed any help. During the last four months, hovering had become an automatic response in him, and he had to remind himself every day not to treat Malcolm like an invalid. Technically, Malcolm was still an invalid; pale and thin, his body weakened by months of lying in bed and struggling with the illness. But it was the end of April now, summer was just around the corner, and as the days got warmer, Malcolm was visibly starting to feel better. Jon's presence and his captainly authority had helped to keep him in bed, and when Archer had left after two weeks, Malcolm's temperature had almost returned to normal. In retrospect, Trip was more than relieved that he had accepted Jon's offer, and had already made plans to book a weekend for his friend and Captain Hernandez in their favorite hotel in the Rocky Mountains. Jon definitely deserved some time off.

When Phlox had first given him green light to get out of bed, Malcolm had grabbed a blanket and a book and made himself comfortable on the porch swing, where he had been spending most of his days ever since. Being Malcolm, he had of course returned to working on his projects as soon as he could, and more often than not Trip would find him on the couch or in an armchair, quietly snoring with his beloved EM field blueprints resting on his chest. Being Malcolm, he also worried about leaving the housework to Trip, and insisted on doing at least part of his regular chores. Trip knew better than to argue, and from time to time allowed Malcolm to clear the table, or left toothpaste on the edge of the sink so Malcolm could fuss, scold and get a cloth to wipe it clean. They had drawn the line at cooking and shopping, but if he left a few little things for Malcolm to do the other man wouldn't feel as if he were burdening Trip. Trip for his part didn't mind being burdened a little, if it helped Malcolm recover sooner, but had learned soon enough that the Reed mind didn't work that way.

Phlox still came by every other week, but those visits had taken on the air of social calls rather than medical appointments. Malcolm, of course, would always pester the doctor as to when he could go back to R&D, looking crestfallen every time the doctor told him that he would have to stay home for at least another four weeks. Trip had returned to part-time work after Malcolm had been allowed out of bed, and Malcolm didn't seem to understand why he couldn't go as well, now that he was able to walk more than a dozen meters without passing out from exhaustion.

To take Malcolm's mind off things, Trip had decided to take him and Johnson to the beach, now that the weather was finally getting warm enough. Malcolm liked the seashore, as long as he didn't have to swim; sometimes, he would even wade around a little in the shallows before returning to his book and towel.

Today, of course, even wading was out of the question; Trip could see from the slow way Malcolm was moving that the drive here had exhausted him more than he was ready to admit. He was smiling, however, and Trip was glad to see it. Malcolm's days of gloom and depression seemed to have vanished along with the worst of the virus, and no one was missing them, least of all the Englishman himself.

"Ready to go, darlin'?" Trip asked, picking up the picnic basket.

Malcolm nodded, and Johnson, who seemed to feel addressed as well, barked loudly. Malcolm reached for the bag with the towels, and Trip bit down on his lip to stop himself from saying anything. The towel bag wasn't heavy, and if Malcolm carried it, things would feel more back to normal. Which was exactly why they had come here; to do something normal on a nice, normal, sunny Saturday afternoon. Trip had no intention of spoiling their day by being the world's biggest fusspot, as his mom would have said.

They made their way down to the beach, a deserted stretch of shore Trip had discovered the year before. He loved to come here instead of going to the overcrowded beaches close to the coastal cities, mostly because Malcolm was more relaxed when they were on their own. As soon as he caught sight of the sea, Johnson sped off like a photon torpedo and splashed into the water. As always, he raced out immediately to shake himself dry, then jumped back in, only to repeat the same maneuver a moment later.

"He's a strange dog," Malcolm said, watching Johnson as if he couldn't quite believe that someone would actually get enjoyment out of doing such a thing.

Trip laughed. "It's like he can't decide whether he likes the water or not," he said, and smiled as he added, "Reminds me of someone else I know."

Malcolm smirked. "Believe me, you won't ever see me rolling around in the seaweed."

Trip followed Malcolm's eyes and saw Johnson on his back with all fours in the air. For a moment, his mental eye replaced the dog with Malcolm, and Trip burst out laughing. He was still chuckling as he spread their towels on the sand.

_Now that would be a sight screaming for a camera._

Malcolm shook off his shoes, then pulled off his pants and t-shirt to reveal black swimming trunks underneath. Trip began undressing himself and tried not to look at Malcolm's ribs that were still painfully visible under the pale skin. Malcolm was only slowly regaining the weight he had lost; too slowly in Trip's opinion, who tried everything he could to coax Malcolm into eating.

_Stop it_ , he told himself as he sat down on his towel. _He's gonna notice if you keep this up. And today's about having fun, not playing nurse._

Malcolm had stretched out next to him on his stomach, his head resting on his arms. Trip quickly rummaged through their bag, then turned back to his partner, sunscreen in hand.

"Watch out, darlin', this is gonna feel a little cold."

He squirted a generous amount of sunscreen onto the pale back, then began to rub it in with slow, stroking movements. Malcolm sighed happily, and Trip smiled, moving on to the neck and ears. Malcolm burned easily, and needed sun protection on every uncovered part of his body so he wouldn't look like a boiled lobster tonight.

After he had taken care of Malcolm, Trip shook some more suncream into his palm and began to rub it into his skin. He was about to do his shoulders when the bottle was taken from his hands.

"Here, let me."

Trip didn't protest and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Malcolm's fingers massaging his back. Malcolm took his time, and continued to stroke down Trip's back and shoulders even as the last trace of sunscreen had long been rubbed into the skin. Trip hadn't felt so good in a long time, the sun and Malcolm's touch warming him inside and outside. He leaned back a little and Malcolm slipped his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Trip's shoulder.

"Nice," he said softly, a smile in his voice.

Trip nodded, eyes still closed. "Yeah, it is."

After a while of sitting there and enjoying the closeness of the contact, Malcolm nudged Trip's ear with his nose.

"Love?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Trip was silent for a moment. He knew that Malcolm wasn't talking about the sunscreen, or even the beach. Malcolm was trying to tell him something Trip had seen in his eyes for a while, and even though it touched him, he wasn't sure if he liked the trace of guilt in Malcolm's voice.

"I love you, darlin'," he said. "And I'm glad you're better. I can't tell you how glad I am."

Malcolm's arms tightened around him. "It's thanks to you that I am better. Trip, I don't know how I can ever-"

"Shh." Trip turned around so that he was facing Malcolm, wanting to look him in the eyes. "Don't even say it, Mal. You would've done the same thing for me."

He leaned forward and they kissed, softly, staying that way for a long time. When Malcolm finally leaned back to look at Trip, there was a slight smile playing about his lips.

"Yes, I would have done the same thing for you. Only that you wouldn't have been such a bloody pain in the arse."

Inspite of himself, Trip chuckled. "I don't know, darlin'. Ask my family, I can be a terror when I'm sick."

"Well, I'm sure no one had to tie you down yet," Malcolm said and grinned. Briefly, Trip's own smile wavered. Then he saw the impish glint in Malcolm's eyes, and understood that the remark had not been intended as an accusation. Malcolm was obviously trying to tell him that the incident was not only forgiven on both sides, but that it was something they could both laugh about, and Trip was only too happy to join in. Laughing helped to take at least part of the sting out of the memories.

Still smiling, he moved so his head came to lay on Malcolm's thigh.

"You know, my sister had this cat as a kid. Matthew. He was never sick in his entire life, and then a dog got him, mauled his leg. The vet said he had to lie still until the injury had healed, and my sister made him a bed out of an old box, with blankets and everythin' that she put under the kitchen table. Matthew wouldn't stay in there, though. He couldn't even walk, but somehow he managed to climb outta the box every night and crawl away from it. We'd find him at the kitchen door in the mornin', starin' up at us out of his green eyes as if he was tellin' us to go to hell. You kinda reminded me of Matthew back then."

Malcolm smiled ruefully. "Well, I did from time to time feel like telling the whole world to go to hell. I wouldn't have put up with myself, if I'd been you. Wouldn't blame you if you had sent me to the hospital at some point."

Trip vehemently shook his head. "Never. I would've never sent you away, Mal."

Malcolm said nothing and smiled, beginning to comb Trip's hair with his fingers so that it stuck up in all directions. Trip closed his eyes and didn't even open them when a spray of droplets showered him, announcing Johnson's return. He heard the dog settling onto the sand next to him, the unique smell of wet canine wafting through the air. Trip found that he didn't mind at all.

This was turning out to be the best day in a long time.


End file.
